


Muirburn

by Rotpeach



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Other, Reader-Insert, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 01:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11795697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: A farmer will set his own pasture alight to bring what he wants out of the soil.





	Muirburn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nuntears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuntears/gifts).



> so several eons ago nuntears and i were gonna do a fic trade but in our defense we're busy people with occasional dips in productivity alright lol

Monotony will be the death of you.

It sounds dramatic, but there’s little else that hurts as badly.

You have quiet days when the sunrise pushes hesitantly through the curtains and rolls across the living room floor, when you hear the stutter of a neighbor’s lawn mower and dogs are barking across the street. The house will be still and silent, and you will choke on the thick air of apprehension that lingers, basic animal fear that blooms somewhere deep inside of you and promises that things will not be quiet for long.

(He said he was going to keep you forever, ran his hands over your rope-burned wrists and kissed the holes he gouged into your flesh, all of his favorite parts of you.

You sat on the basement floor as he poured over you like the tide coming in, and he left you so shaken you didn’t know how you were supposed to feel.)

They can’t be, because he comes back in the afternoon and maybe he touches you and maybe he cuts into you, maybe he does both with one hand tangled in your hair and the other wrapped around a knife, maybe you taste him on your tongue and the rancid odor of gasoline and sweat and musk—and something else you dare not linger on, something like rust but headier, but cloying and dizzying and stomach-turning—stays even when he leaves and won’t come off no matter how long you spend trying to wash him away.

You would watch the blood swirl down the drain and feel as empty as the sink basin when all of the water was gone.

(“Forever?” you echoed weakly.

“Forever,” he repeated with enough conviction for both of you.

Forever meant more of this, more of his hands bruising everything he touches, more agonizingly silent nights where he leaves you in the dark, more of his weight pinning you to the ground, more blood splattered across your body that he stops to lick off of your skin. There would be more until it no longer surprised you and it no longer hurt and you could no longer tell if you were even alive anymore.

The idea of “forever” promised routine and complacency, even if neither of you wanted it, even if neither of you intended it, and you were _afraid_.)

Morning drags the sun over the horizon. You hear lawn sprinklers and school buses. There is food left out for you on the kitchen counter on a plate that’s a blinding shade of white, almost mocking in its sterility when your hands seem so tainted, a note telling you to “be good” because he won’t be back until late. Today will be a quiet day.

(You don’t think he knows. You don’t think he can see it.

He still smiles when he binds your wrists above your head and forces his way into your heat, dragging his nails down your stomach hard enough to get bits of your skin beneath his nails. You still scream and you still cry, but this is part of the routine and you are more tired than anything, you are weary and you are expecting all of it.

It’s not enough anymore.)

You stare at the plate and gently touch your fingertips to the ring of metal circling your throat, thoughtful, melancholy, filled with dread.

(Selfish. He’s selfish. You knew that already but you hate him even more for it now. He doesn’t know and he can’t see it. Whatever this is, this “ _forever_ ” and this habitual alteration between days that drag on too long and days that are gone too soon, it’s stale, it’s rotting and putrid and there is no saving it, and he doesn’t even _notice_.)

You throw the plate against the wall and watch it shatter, your breakfast smeared across the wallpaper. The noise echoes, and the silence that follows is deafening, rings in your ears like the death rattle of something you can’t put a name to. You didn’t mean to. You didn’t think about it.

You look down at your hands and you see that you’re shaking, and your breath hitches in your throat a few times as you hyperventilate, your pulse quickens and you know he’s going to be mad, he’s going to be furious, you don’t know what he’ll do…

And you start to laugh.

You reach up

(imagine he is there for you to choke)

into the kitchen cabinets with shaking hands, and you start taking things, you start breaking things, you slam dishes down against the counter and feel them cracking beneath your fingers, hear the shards skittering across the floor. It makes you feel _powerful_.

You shatter wine glasses in your hands and feel the pieces digging into your palm but you don’t care, you don’t care at all, you’re strong, you’re terrified, you love it, you pull them out and leave them all over the kitchen for him to step on, wipe your bloodied hands over his countertops and draw patterns in it, wounded finger painting, you are laughing and you are crying because you think you’ve gone too far but it’s too late now, you

hear a key turning in the lock at the front door, and all the color drains from your face.

“Surprise!” his jovial voice drifts down the hall. “I thought I’d come home a little early today. Have you been good?”

You finally start to feel pain throbbing in your hands, palms and fingertips slashed open by glass. Your heart is pounding. His footsteps approach slowly like he’s giving you time to think, like he knows you did something.

Like he knew all along.

“Are you awake?” he calls. “You didn’t sleep all day, did you?”

(You can’t, you can’t leave it like this, you have to wipe up the blood and sweep up the broken plates and you have to run and hide because he’s going to see this and his eyes will darken and his hands will close into fists and there will be sharp and serrated and savage things tearing into you, but your fear wraps cold fingers around your ankles and shoulders and keeps you from doing anything but whimpering)

He rounds the corner and his expectant expression is replaced by shock, looking all around you at ceramic shards and dark red stains across the counter, red handprints on the cupboards.

His eyes narrow. You can’t remember the last time you were this afraid.

He listens to your panicked breathing for a moment before he meets your eyes, and you choke on a frightened sob when he takes a step towards you. “Oh, liebling,” he purrs, “you’ve been very, very bad, haven’t you?”

He’s on you before you can turn all the way to run, catching you by the wrist and throwing you on the kitchen floor. You feel the back of your head collide with the hard floor and split open along an invisible seam, your scalp cracking in a ragged wound. Blood dribbles from the throbbing gash, clumping up in your hair and dripping down the back of you neck. He stomps on your chest so hard you hear something inside of you crack.

“You’re lucky,” he says. “Very lucky, because I’m willing to be so patient with you. I can tell when you’re feeling restless. I knew this might happen.”

He crouches down and rips your shirt down the middle, grabbing at your chest and pinching your nipples between his fingers. You gasp at the harshness of his touch and squirm anxiously, and he grips your head and slams you down on the floor under him. He presses himself against you and makes you lie in the glass, and you feel yourself bleeding on the floor as his fingers rake down your sides and run teasingly over every shard, prodding and pulling, pushing them in further.  
“Look at the mess you made,” he says, tugging your hair and forcing you to look around the kitchen. “Awful. You’re acting out for attention, aren’t you? If you wanted that, you should’ve asked instead of breaking my things.” He takes one of your bloodied hands covered in little papercut-thin lacerations and drags his tongue over the wounds, pulling at the edges with his teeth. “You even wasted the food I made just for you. Ungrateful. Disrespectful.”

He forces you to turn over with a heavy hand on your shoulder and you whimper when you feel glass digging into your chest. He drags your legs out straight and yanks your underwear off. You try to pull yourself inward and every shard embedded in your body digs in deeper.

You expect to feel him between your legs but instead you feel something cold and jagged, the edge of a half-broken plate dragging over sensitive skin. “Oh god,” you stammer, “p-please dont.”

“Don’t?” he echoes. “Why not? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“No,” you whimper, tears streaming down your cheeks, “no, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t.”

“Oh, don’t cry,” he coos gently, prodding you with the sharp edges of the plate, teasing at your entrance with its sharpness. The uneven bumps and ridges scrape rough, crooked lines into your skin. “You don’t really know what you want, do you? You need me to help you figure that out.” He chuckles, his free hand stroking your hair affectionately. “And you know,” he murmurs, and you feel cold, fractured ceramic prodding against you, “I think you want this.”

“No, please—!”

“You do,” he insists, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “You want me to fuck you with this broken plate. You want it to cut you open inside.”

“I-I don’t!”

He chuckles, and then he starts to _push_. “No need to be shy.”

“No,” you gasp, squirming on a bed of glass and afraid, more afraid than you have been in a long time, “no, please, I don’t, I don’t want this, please, Strade, _please_ , I’m sorry!”

He hums thoughtfully. “You’re sorry?”

“Y-yes, I’m sorry, I was bad, I shouldn’t have done that,” you sob.

Slowly, the pressure of those sharp edges leaves your skin and you shudder, letting out the breath you were holding. “Why were you bad?” he asks.

You shiver, sniffling. “I-I...I don’t… I just….” The words catch in your throat.

He gets impatient waiting for your answer. You hear a soft sigh, and then his weight lifts from your body. His hands are on you before you can relax, wrapped bruisingly tight around your forearm to tug you upright. You whimper at all the little razor-sharp shards embedding themselves in your knees. “It’s alright,” he says, a hand landing on your head and stroking your hair softly. “It’s okay. I forgive you. You’re so cute when you cry.”

He lets go of your arm and you have to hold onto him to keep your balance, vertigo coursing through you, the back of your head aching. Strade smiles and curls some of your hair around his fingers playfully. You know what he wants; you see his free hand trailing down to unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly.

“I understand. I get bored sometimes, too.” You feel his fingers wandering to the back of your head, and you make a small, frightened sound when you feel him touching at the wound, wetting his fingers in the blood smeared over your scalp. “That’s why I like you. You keep things _interesting_.”

He hooks his fingers into your split skin, fingering the wound, and you gasp. In the same movement, he guides his hardened length into your open mouth, not letting you pull away. You choke on a useless plea for mercy, forced to relax your jaw to accommodate the girth of his cock. You taste his precum smear over the top of your tongue as he grasps your head with both hands and forces his way down your throat.

“Oh, so good for me,” he groans, rolling his hips before you’re ready, keeping your face flush against his pelvis, nose buried in a patch of curled pubic hair that smells so strongly of him that your eyes water. “You can be so good when you want to be, _ohhhh_ , yes you can.”

You fight not to gag as he starts thrusting into you, fucking your face hard enough that your jaw starts to ache. Your fingers scrape across his hips for purchase, but your nails in his skin only urges him on, makes him chuckle low in his throat and pull you even closer, his feet planted on either side of you as he moves your head along his cock like a toy.

You’re shivering, heart pounding and lungs burning for air, unable to breathe through your nose long enough between his movements. Just when you start to feel lightheaded, he pulls out and throws you back. You collapse in a heap on the floor and curl up on your side, coughing and sputtering, precum and foaming saliva dripping down your chin.

“Good,” he purrs, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth. “Very good. I forgive you.” He kneels, legs coming to rest on either side of you, and tugs your hips up higher to line himself up with your entrance. You take a shuddering breath and your fingers tighten into fists, waiting.

Suddenly, you feel him, his cock slamming into you without any warning, and your whole body seizes up in pain. The force of his thrust makes your knees scrape over broken glass. “Do you feel that?” he murmurs. “You’re taking me so well.” He pulls back out to the tip and slams back into you, and your fingers rake through the glass scrambling for purchase, your bloody fingerprints smearing over the floor. “It’s no fun to be good all the time, though. That’s why you did this, isn’t it?”

You let out a cry like a wounded animal when he thrusts exceptionally hard, his pelvis hitting yours as he sheathes himself as deep as he can go. He moves his hands up your sides, uncaring of the shards sticking out of your skin, slicing his hands open. Your blood mixes on the floor.

“You want to know if you’re alive or not, don’t you?” he asks.

You inhale shakily.

Strade is quiet for a moment. You hear yourself panting and crying, your pulse thudding in your ears. And then he drapes himself over your back and drives the glass deeper into you, presses it into his own chest, connects you so closely that you’re afraid you won’t ever be able to separate. He bites your ear, not lightly and teasingly but hard enough to draw blood. He suckles at the wound and breathes heat onto your sweat-soaked skin.

“You’re alive, liebling,” he whispers. “I can feel your heartbeat. You’re alive because that’s what I want. Don’t be afraid of not knowing.” He grinds into you, slow and deep. “If I don’t want you alive anymore, you’ll know. It’ll be the last thing you’ll ever know.”

Every movement is painful, every drag of his manhood against your inner muscles leaves you burning. He drags his nails over your skin, moving between fractured pieces of wine glasses and dinner plates, and it feels like waking from a long dream, like coming out of a deep sleep and remembering that you stared death in the face but it did not take you

(and you are so deeply resentful that it left you here with him).

He bites the junction of your neck and your shoulder and he whispers praise faintly into your skin while he starts to take the shards out of you, dragging ragged breaths and whimpers from your lips, takes you apart so he can put you back together.

Every pinprick of a glinting, sharp sliver leaves a raw, oozing wound behind. All of the pieces sparkle on the floor in the sunlight stained a bright crimson, and he continues to pluck them out like rose petals, loves-me-loves-me-not, until you are just the shivering core left naked beneath him like you were always meant to be.

His fingertips trace bloody constellations between your wounds, wrapping around your body and dipping between your legs. You feel a heated touch, teasingly light, mockingly gentle, as his hips snap against you harder. You can’t tell what feels good and what hurts—everything is overwhelming and sickening and too much.

Strade’s lips brush against the shell of your ear and his breath warms the side of your face. “You taste sweet, did you know that? Like honey. Warm and sweet and so, so good,” he murmurs praise. You feel his hand dip between your legs, fingers dragging too hard, too rough over sensitive flesh. “It’s a taste you only have when you’re suffering.”

He bites down, thrusts his hips, digs his nails in so hard that you think he breaks the skin, and a scream comes out of some dark, animal place inside of you, scrapes against the inside of your throat, echoes in the kitchen, rattles in your ears. You don’t know if you’re coming or if you’re dying, it feels like falling through the floor and being weightless at the same time, every nerve in your body on fire and slashed through the middle with glass, every light too bright, every inch of your skin crawling and shuddering.

You don’t know how long the feeling lasts, but the next time you can feel anything other than searing white noise pleasure-pain, Strade is still and quiet on top of you, breathing heavy, flaccid cock resting against the back of your thigh. There’s an uncomfortable, liquid warmth inside of you that might be blood and might be cum but is more likely both.

You close your eyes and rest your cheek against the floor, feeling something like a phoenix that has crawled on ash-blackened, blistering hands and feet out of a fire you always knew was coming but dreaded all the same.

“Let’s get this glass out of you, hm?” Strade says, a soft chuckle leaving him as he peels away from you and drags some sharp, small shards of something out of your back as he goes. But you nod anyway, you willingly go limp and pliant in his hands when he reaches for you, let him carry you up the stairs with fragments of broken things sticking out of your skin.

You are alive, and it really feels like it, it stings and it burns and it aches deep all the way to your bones, courses through your veins with every heartbeat. Strade uses a tweezer to pull bloodied shards out of your skin, smiling as you squirm sitting on the edge of the bathtub, rivers of red dripping from your body and swirling in the water. _You are alive_.

His eyes are searching yours, wondering how much pain you’ll take before you feel as though you’re stagnating again, how much of a shell will grow around you, how far he’ll have to dig next time to find you shivering beneath it all, still hurting, still alive. Wondering if there’s a limit and one day he’ll find nothing but a withered husk in the center. You don’t know.

But for now, you’re alive, and you think you can convince yourself that's what you've wanted.


End file.
